


can't change all our tactics

by staircased



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt Reaper | Gabriel Reyes, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Undercover Missions, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:54:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26664013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staircased/pseuds/staircased
Summary: McCree’s undercover operation doesn’t quite go to plan when Reyes manages to get himself captured by the gang he’s surveilling.
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Reaper | Gabriel Reyes
Kudos: 19





	can't change all our tactics

**Author's Note:**

> for [vrooom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vrooom), who discussed handcuffed!Gabe with me literally years ago and has had to wait forever for this because I’m useless
> 
> set during Blackwatch era, with established relationship McCree/Reyes

“You’re bluffing.”

Floyd’s eyes narrow as he looks between McCree and his own hand of cards. "I know you're goddamn bluffing, Abner."

McCree grins at the alias. "Then you oughta do well this round, huh? Win back some cash and your dignity at the same time?"

Floyd taps his foot against the chair leg, making the table rattle ever so slightly, and McCree doesn't blink as he waits for the showdown to reach its expected conclusion.

"Fuck you," Floyd says and tosses his cards down on the table in surrender. "I fold. I ain't letting you clean me out five times in one day. The way my luck's been going, you probably got a flush tucked away there."

McCree gives him a wink as he scoops up the meager pot and tosses his cards -- two threes and a seven -- on the table. "You gotta learn to trust those instincts, Floyd."

Floyd looks at the cards, then McCree, then back to the cards. "You motherfucker."

McCree puts a hand to his heart. "Now that's just uncalled for."

“You're an asshole, you know that, Abner?"

"It's been said," McCree admits, and shuffles the deck. "Think of it as a learning experience. I'm helping you build character."

"Fuckin’ Porter," Floyd grumbles. "This is his fault for letting you in. All that shit about _being a crackshot_ and _having experience_ and he don't think to check whether you're a goddamn card shark."

"You oughta add that to your recruitment criteria," McCree says. "Join the Burning Falcons: you gotta be good with guns and real bad at cards."

Floyd flips him off and McCree takes a sip of whisky as he revels in his victory. 

As undercover operations go, this has been one of his better gigs. He's been with the Falcons for coming up on a month now and it's lived up to expectations as a younger, dumber version of the Deadlock Gang. They wound up on Blackwatch's radar through their growing web of associates and so the decision was made to to go in, gather intel, and then take them down before they could develop into an actual problem.

The fact that McCree’s undercover role entailed drinking, shooting, and winning a shitload of money at cards was really just a bonus.

The whisky burns as it goes down but the buzz of alcohol is interrupted by shouts from outside. 

If Floyd’s noticed, he doesn’t show it, but McCree is on his feet in an instant when he picks up the sounds of a scuffle. "The hell is that?"

Floyd shrugs. "I'm sure Porter's got it under control."

McCree heads for the door anyway. As the leader of the Falcons, Porter has maybe sixty percent of things under control and wings the remaining forty.

As soon as he steps out into the courtyard, McCree decides this is definitely in the 'winging it' category.

Porter's out there, flanked by his deputies and calling instructions to a couple of his burliest henchmen as they haul a captive across the yard. It takes a second for McCree to understand what he's seeing but even with a bag over his head and cuffs on his wrists, there's no mistaking that uniform or the broad shoulders of the man wearing it. 

McCree gulps. 

Gabe getting himself captured was definitely not part of the plan.

From the amounts of injuries Porter and his crew are sporting, Gabe put up a decent fight but there's nothing he can do now but struggle as he's dragged over to the makeshift cells. He doesn't look seriously injured, which is a relief, but it's still an effort for McCree to hide his concern as he looks for someone to give him an update on what happened.

He'd given Blackwatch the all-clear earlier, told Gabe which outpost would be empty at what time so that the team could do a sweep for evidence of the Falcons' dealings with Talon. The information was good and McCree tamps down his panic that his cover might have been blown as he strolls down towards the vehicles.

He manages a genuine smile when he sees Verne there. Verne might be the dumbest person McCree has ever met, and given that Genji once tried to use a sword to get bread out of a toaster, that's an extremely low bar.

"What's going on, man?" McCree asks. "We taking hostages now or something?"

"Kinda?" Verne says, watching them march Gabe to the opposite side of the yard. "It was the weirdest thing. We got partway back and I realized I left my keys back at the outpost. I was just gonna leave 'em but Porter, he said we should go back for them 'cause they’re real important for-“

"Sure," McCree cuts in. "Keys. Important. What happened then?"

"I go back inside to get them and there's this big dude, just standing there, looking at one of our computers. I don't know how he got into them or what he wanted or-"

"Was it just him?” McCree asks. “I mean, uh. One against six, sounds like a pretty easy fight."

"There was someone else there," Verne says. “I didn't get a good look but it was like they were a wizard or something.”

McCree blinks. "A wizard?"

"Yeah! It was weird as shit. As soon as we got the big guy down, the wizard just vanished. Like, nyoom..."

He illustrates with a swooping gesture. McCree makes a mental note to include the wizard comparison prominently in his mission report. He's sure Moira will appreciate it.

“So what’s the plan? This place ain’t exactly set up to keep prisoners.”

Verne shrugs. “Ransom maybe? Heard you could make a whole bunch of money ransoming folk.”

McCree nods and pretends to think. “Yeah, ransom could be good. We know who he was working for?”

Verne’s heavy brow creases. “Not sure. Why? That important?”

“You kinda need to know who he’s working for so you know who to send the ransom demand to,” McCree explains.

He can almost see Verne’s two braincells piecing together the thought. “Oh, right. Gotcha.” He shrugs. “Guess Porter’s gonna find out then, huh.”

Across the yard, Gabe is shoved into the building, with Porter following close behind. His deputies follow but then exit soon after, posting up outside the door to leave Porter and Gabe alone for what McCree can only assume is the interrogation.

“Sounds like you had a hell of a day,” he says to Verne. “How ‘bout you go get a drink? I’m sure you earned it, dealing with a wizard and all.”

“Hell yeah,” Verne says. “You’re a smart guy, Abner.”

McCree dips the brim of his hat. “I try.”

He hangs back as Verne goes jogging off towards the bar. While he figures his chances of taking on the whole gang and winning are above zero, they’re not high enough for it to be a feasible plan, and so he settles for an alternate approach.

It’s getting late in the afternoon, the sun starting to dip below the west edge of the compound, but McCree takes his time moving through the yard and stopping for small-talk with anyone he meets. He keeps one eye on the door the whole time and as soon as Porter emerges for a smoke, McCree closes the distance in seconds.

“Well, hey there,” he says, and then, with feigned concern, “Verne said you ran into some trouble out on patrol. Y’all make it back okay?”

“Some scrapes,” Porter says, gesturing to the darkening bruise over his eye. “Reggie took a bad blow to the head but we all made it back. That’s more than I can say for the assholes who did this.”

McCree tries to disguise his panic. “You killed some of ‘em?”

“Not yet,” Porter admits. He sounds a little dejected. “There was two of them — one got past us but the other one’s in there.” He cracks his already-bloodied knuckles. “He’s gonna start talking any second now.”

It’s really hard not to laugh in his face at the thought of Gabe yielding after a couple of punches. McCree aims for a noise of sympathy instead.

“I’m sure he will,” he says. “But you know what really helps with interrogations? The good-cop, bad-cop routine.”

Porter arches an eyebrow and McCree holds his hands up. “Yeah, I thought it was bullshit too, but I had this job once, needed to get info out of some rich guy, and the combination of sweet-talk and cold hard violence was damn effective.”

He opts not to mention that the sweet-talk was him hooking up with the rich guy and the cold hard violence was Ashe throwing a plate at him when she found out.

“I can go get Verne or Floyd or someone if you want?” he asks. “They could play the good cop to your bad?”

As expected, Porter frowns at the prospect of either Verne or Floyd backing him up, and McCree does his best attempt to look innocuous as Porter eyes him up.

“You wanna help me take a shot at this, Abner?” 

“Me?” He shrugs. “If you’re sure, boss.”

Porter nods towards the door. “You do good cop.”

McCree gives a little salute as he follows him in. “Yes, sir.”

The building is hot inside, baked by the sun throughout the day, and McCree lifts his hat for a second to push his hair back off his forehead as he waits for Porter to unlock the makeshift interrogation room. The Falcons’ budget doesn’t stretch to anything as fancy as a two-way mirror and so the room has just four solid walls, with a window high up on one side that is way too small for a person to squeeze through.

There’s a table and two chairs in the middle of the room, and McCree concentrates on keeping his expression neutral as he looks over the man in one of the two chairs. 

Gabe’s cuffs are hooked around one leg of the table but otherwise he looks fairly relaxed, lounging back as much as the restraints allow. He’s bruised and bloodied, with a gash just below his hairline and patches of drying blood visible on his dark clothes, but his injuries are definitely on the ‘minor’ end of the scale rather than the ‘life-threatening’ one.

Porter moves to sit on the end of the table and McCree hangs back for a second to give Gabe a wink.

Gabe’s defiant expression turns to a glower and McCree flashes him a grin as he takes the seat opposite him. “Howdy.”

“Oh, great,” Gabe says, slouching back in his chair. “Good cop, dumb cop, my favorite.”

Porter moves before McCree can stop him and slugs Gabe hard across the jaw. “Watch your fucking mouth.”

Gabe’s wince becomes a grin as he spits a mouthful of blood on the ground. “Thought you wanted me to talk?”

“I want you to answer my fuckin’ questions,” Porter says with a sneer.

Gabe shrugs. “Then ask better fuckin’ questions.” 

Porter punches him again, this time high on the cheek, and McCree leans forward to chip in, “Y’know, you might wanna rethink antagonizing the guy who’s holding you captive. Just a thought.”

It’s advice from both Abner and McCree but Gabe seems unfazed as he works a crick out of his neck. “That right?” 

He looks him over, eyes narrowing a little at McCree’s choice of shirt, but his tone remains defiant as he says, “What’re you here for, kid? You think I’m gonna tell you any more than I told this dumbass?”

The punch from Porter is unsurprising and McCree and Gabe largely ignore it. It’s a valid question — it’s not like he wants Gabe to start talking about Blackwatch — and McCree fumbles for a solution when he says, “We just want the truth, man. We know a bunch of people have it out for the Falcons. Tell us which group sent you and maybe the boss here can be persuaded to go easy on you.” 

He meets Gabe’s eyes and does his best to give him a (fictional) out, “Was it Deadlock, maybe? The Blue Flames?”

Gabe snorts. “You really think I’d work for those amateurs?”

“You did manage to get captured,” McCree points out. “Not exactly a pro move there, pal.”

“Faulty information,” Gabe says with a shrug. “This is what I get for relying on idiots.”

McCree bristles but Porter leans in. “So you’re working with a team?”

“Good insight, Sherlock,” Gabe says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Guess you cracked the case again.”

Growling, Porter backhands him hard. McCree has limited sympathy this time.

Gabe laughs. “What, didn’t like that answer? I can try again, I guess. ‘No, definitely no team. The person you saw with me earlier was just a hallucination.’” He fixes Porter with a stare. “Take your pick.”

“Tough guy, huh?” Porter says through gritted teeth. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a lighter, the flame hovering too close to Gabe’s face. “Let’s see what we can do about that.”

McCree gulps and intervenes as best he can, targeting Gabe rather than Porter. “This doesn’t need to get any messier than it already is, man. Just give us a name — we can look into the rest.”

Gabe arches an eyebrow. “Like your boss isn’t just going to shoot me as soon as he gets the answer he wants?”

He makes a good point.

“He won’t,” McCree says, with a confidence he doesn’t feel. “Look, buddy, the only way we’re gonna get through this is with you talking.”

“Damn straight,” Porter says, flicking the lighter off and on. “We’ll beat it out of you if we have to.”

Gabe grins. “Good luck with that.” His gaze travels to McCree as he says pointedly, “Somehow I don’t think talking’s my ticket out of here.”

Nodding, McCree pulls a toothpick out of the pouch on his hip and chews on it thoughtfully. “You know this is gonna hurt, right?”

Gabe’s grin widens. “I’ll make it quick.”

“You-” McCree starts at the same time as Porter says, “What-”

Gabe moves before either of them can finish. The table tips as he lifts it a fraction and drives his legs into the underside hard enough to send Porter sprawling on the floor. McCree stumbles backward, knocked out of his chair, but he purposefully doesn’t reach for his gun as Gabe slides his cuffs off from around the table leg and charges towards him.

McCree groans as his back hits the wall hard. Gabe’s hand lingers on the pouch at his hip for just a second before he’s on him with full force, hands braced against the wall either side of his head and the chain of his cuffs pressed tight against McCree’s throat. After so long undercover, McCree had almost forgotten just how strong and broad Gabe is, and despite the circumstances, it’s an effort to maintain a scared facade as Gabe’s body pushes up against his own.

“Boss!” he chokes out as Porter scrambles to his feet. “Help-”

He barely sees Porter move but hears the solid thud as the butt of Porter’s gun collides with the back of Gabe’s head. Gabe releases him, still upright but unsteady on his feet, and as he staggers, McCree follows up with a solid right hook to his jaw.

That’s enough, and McCree puts a hand to his bruised throat as he watches Gabe slump into unconsciousness on the ground. “Fuck.”

He gives Porter a sheepish look. “Thanks, boss. Didn’t expect him to move that quick.”

Scowling, Porter gives Gabe’s body a kick. “Fuckin’ asshole.”

McCree coughs. “What happens now? Should we get the medic in here?”

“Fuck that,” Porter says. “Shove him in a cell. We’ll work him over again tomorrow, with better restraints this time. He’ll talk eventually.”

“Sure thing,” he agrees. His voice comes out rough and croaky, even without any exaggeration, and he winces. “Fuck, I need a drink. So much for good cop, bad cop, huh?”

“Was worth a shot,” Porter says. “Good effort, Abner.”

He moves to the door, calling for a couple of guys to help move Gabe, and McCree’s gaze lingers on his body as he says with a sigh, “Thanks, boss.”

———

He doesn’t know what time Gabe wakes up but it’s gone 2am before he makes it out of the cellblock.

McCree’s made it through two cigars in the meantime, blowing rings of smoke out into the crisp night air as he sits on the roof of the ramshackle bar. Gabe’s slow enough that McCree half-considers going in to retrieve him if he’s not out before dawn but he smiles in relief when he eventually sees a dark shape slip past the sleeping guard and move around the outside of the jail.

The compound is quiet by now, with only the lookouts on the outside wall awake, and so McCree has no worries about being seen as he clambers down from the roof and goes to head Gabe off before he reaches the exit.

It’s very hard to resist the urge to jump out and spook him as a joke, but he decides being throttled once is enough for the day. Instead he slips ahead of him and leans against the wall as Gabe creeps around the corner. 

“Come here often?”

Despite McCree’s efforts not to scare him, Gabe starts in surprise anyway, eyes narrowing when he sees him. “You little shit.”

“Good to see you too, boss.” 

He keeps his voice low as he moves in to look Gabe over. He’s still cuffed — the toothpicks were apparently enough to get him out of the cell but not to rid him of the restraints — and McCree winces in sympathy when he sees the fresh bruise blossoming on his jaw. “Sorry about that one. Figured it would be better if you were out cold.”

He knows better than to expect a thank you for punching his boss in the face but Gabe’s grudging nod is sufficient gratitude. “Good call.”

He holds his hands out as McCree moves in to remove the cuffs. Up close, his injuries look worse, the gashes and bruises from the earlier fight now swollen and darkened, and McCree’s being sincere when he asks, “You okay?”

After his bravado in the interrogation room, Gabe now just looks exhausted and McCree gambles on reaching up to cup his jaw as he looks him over with care.

“I’m fine,” Gabe says. “Be glad to get out of this shithole though.”

McCree smiles and leans in to give him a gentle kiss on the lips. “There’s a blindspot over here. No lookouts, just a straight shot back to town.”

Gabe relaxes a little at the contact but still grumbles as McCree leads the way to the exit. “So much for the undercover job.”

“I’m sorry,” McCree says. “It was supposed to be clear but some dumbass forgot his keys so they doubled back. I didn’t know.”

Gabe sighs. “I know. I guess this is what I get for sending you into somewhere that’s wall-to-wall idiots.”

McCree frowns. “Wait, is that a compliment?”

“No.”

His frown deepens. “An insult?”

“Jesse, would you shut the fuck up and get us out of here?” He sighs. “Please.”

Deciding it _was_ a compliment, McCree pushes ahead and holds up the fence panel for Gabe to pass through. He moves cautiously, a hand pressed to his ribs as he exits the compound, and McCree makes a mental note to check him over fully when they get to safety.

McCree follows, shedding his Falcons jacket as he goes, and nods to the road to their left. “Town’s about four miles that way.”

Gabe’s jaw tightens, hand still on his ribs.

“There’s a motel on the way,” McCree adds. “Just over a mile. Might be risky to hang around but I’ve met the woman who runs it — I’m pretty sure Porter ain’t gonna cross her.”

“Motel works,” Gabe says. “We can call it in from there, arrange an extract.”

He straightens up as much as he can and starts off down the road. It takes McCree a couple of steps to catch up to him but as he does, he moves in close to Gabe’s side and loops Gabe’s arm over his own shoulders.

“The fuck-”

“You’re hurt.”

“I can still fucking walk,” Gabe mutters but his attempts to pull away are half-hearted at best.

“Sure you can,” McCree agrees, “but this is faster.” He glances over with a smile. “I promise not to tell Moira.”

“Fucking Moira,” Gabe grouses, sounding more like himself with every step. “At least she got away, I guess.”

“Can’t imagine she’d do too well in an interrogation.”

Gabe chuckles, then winces at the pull on his ribs. “You kidding? She’d have her own lab set up by sundown.”

It’s a fair point and McCree lets the conversation lapse into companionable silence as they make their way down the empty road. 

The motel lights are just coming into view, a neon glare in the empty darkness, when Gabe speaks again, sounding more tired than McCree’s ever heard him. 

“Thanks, Jesse,” he murmurs. “As exit plans go, that could’ve gone worse.”

“Would’ve gone better if you hadn’t got beat to shit as part of it.”

“Would’ve gone worse if that asshole had just shot me,” Gabe points out. “Just shut up and accept a thank you, okay? You did good, kid.”

That rare spark of pride blooms in McCree’s chest and he leans over to give Gabe a quick kiss on the cheek. 

“Ow,” Gabe mutters but there’s no heat to it as he presses a kiss to McCree’s temple in return. 

His lips are rough but warm against his skin and McCree finds himself smiling at the contact. Not that it’s a situation he ever wants them to be in again but it’s nice to have occasional proof of Gabe’s softer side. 

“I love you too,” he teases and smiles wider at Gabe’s groan.

“Jesse, I swear-”

“I know, I know.” He grins and does his best Gabe impression, “Shut the fuck up.”

He gets a grunt and another fleeting kiss in response, and McCree smiles to himself as they settle into contented silence. 

Sure, they may not have busted an illegal weapons ring but at least the undercover mission wasn’t a total loss.


End file.
